sisters, mothers, and brothers

In the summer our bonds would thicken.

In the art tent, with the chickens, 

even over the tragedy of me killing our rabbit.

We would construct elaborate gowns, 

fit for kings and queens, 

out of construction paper and markers.

We’d eat so much watermelon 

our bellys would ache.

Hell, I’d play so hard I’d poop in my pants.

When you asked me why 

it was always because I didn’t have time.

Not enough time to stop playing.

How right was I?

Now isolated by eighteen-hundred miles 

I only have these fleeting thoughts.

But when the heat sets in on the city 

and the hot sun crisps my skin,

all I remember are the hot summer days 

when we became friends.